Sky Captain and the Fortune Hunters
by Delta One
Summary: Joe "Sky Captain" Sullivan and the Flying Legion must join forces with Nathan Zachary's Fortune Hunters to track down the mysterious Doctor Marmolé!
1. Chapter 1

All I ask is a tall ship, thought Nathan Zachary, and a load of contraband to fill her with.

Standing in what he unconsciously considered his Captain Pose, Nathan peered at the misty horizon, trying to pick out the coastline to the west. A punishing storm had risen up during the long flight from Miami to New York, driving the Pandora out into the Atlantic. It had added a whole day to their transit time, but Nathan was forced to admit that he didn't really mind. The Fortune Hunters, his skilled and talented team of sky pirates, had made out exceptionally well during their recent adventure, battling the forces of Dead-Eye Duncan and his Fast Paced Squadron for ownership of the fabled Staff of Ankoran. The relic was now safely enshrined at the Confederation's National Historical Museum, and a hefty cash payment was settling nicely into his safe.

Turning from the window of the control room, Nathan reviewed his troops. Big John, one of the best zeppelin pilots in the world, had his attention focused on his instruments and the view outside. A strong northerly wind was building up, and Big John had promised Nathan that they would be no more than twenty-four hours behind schedule.

The gondola which contained the control room was small, as was common on Empire State zeppelins. The majority of the crew spaces, including quarters, a galley and mess hall, mechanics bays and the fighter hanger, were all inside the long, smooth cylinder of the Pandora.

Stepping out of the control room to check on the progress of the repairs, Nathan walked into the navigation room, where his second-in-command Jack Mulligan was arguing loudly with Marco Tomorra, the chief mechanic.

"And I say that the Balmoral can wait," said Jack, who was turning slightly red.

"It's nothing to do with time, Mister Jack," said Tomorra, before Nathan intervened.

"What is it to do with, Marco?"

"Ah, Mister Nathan," said Marco. "It is parts, sir. Mister Jack's Devastator will need a new compression coil. I can't make one, and without it, his engine won't even turn over."

"All right, we'll make it a priority once we dock in New York," said Nathan placatingly.

"What about the other repairs?" asked Jack. "The armour's dented, and half the instruments don't respond."

Tomorra shrugged. "I can fix those things, but you still won't be able to fly the plane. If I fix the Balmoral, you'll at least be able to fly that."

Jack sighed heavily. Nathan could relate - switching from the light, nimble Devastator to the slow-moving, heavily-armored bomber would not be a pleasant experience.

"I'm sorry, Jack," said Nathan, "but it looks like you're taking the Balmoral."

"Fine," sighed Jack. "Sorry, Marco."

"It's OK, Mister Jack. As soon as I get the coil, your Devastator, she will be ready for you, OK?"

"OK. Nathan, how far out are we?"

"Big John says he can see the coast, which puts us about fifty miles away. We should be docked by noon."

"Should we run out a picket line?" asked Jack. Their last departure from the capital of the Empire State had not been overly friendly.

"Ah don't think that's wise," said another of the Fortune Hunters. Stepping off the ladder and dropping into the nav room was Tex Ryder. Born and bred in the Republic that gave him his nickname, Tex was a slim brunette, tough and fearless. She had joined the Fortune Hunters back before they got the Pandora, when they were just another gang of sky pirates looking for work.

"The Empire State won't take kindly to a military-lookin' approach," she continued, "and that is how it'll look to them. Ah recommend that we go in nice an' gentle. After all, we ain't lookin' for a fight, ain't that so, Nathan?"

"No, Tex, we're not," he confirmed. "We're looking for work, not trouble. Something to tide us over on the way to Denver."

Nodding, the two other pilots turned their attention to the plotting table, where the latest weather report had been placed. Leaving them to their deliberations, Nathan climbed up the ladder towards the crew quarters.

The ladder was originally enclosed, but the metal tubing had been cannibalised one hot summers day in Arixo to make an emergency rudder for the Pandora, and they'd never bothered to replace it. Nathan wasn't certain he wanted to. The ladder went from the operational spaces behind the control room to the crew spaces above, but without the sheathing metal gave a wonderful view of the hanger.

Three racks held the fighting aircraft of the Fortune Hunters. Five Devastators occupied the centre line, the ISA-manufactured craft the gang's hallmark. The port rack held the bombers and other heavy craft, two stolen Imperial Balmorals and a Red Skulls Brigand Nathan had stolen himself. The starboard rack held the specialist aircraft, such as the autogyro, a single-engined seaplane and a pair of delta-winged Firebirds, still in the livery of the Nation of Hollywood.

From his perch, Nathan could see Marco crawling back out towards the forward Balmoral, his arms full of parts and tools. Another pair of technicians were loading ammunition into the Devastators, just in case.

Another few rungs lifted him into the crew spaces, the small cabins that made up the home of the Fortune Hunters. His cabin was at the far end, and was the largest one. It was almost big enough that he could hold out his arms and not touch the walls.

He was almost off the ladder when the door to the bathroom slammed open and Betty Charles, known as Brooklyn, came bustling out. She grinned at Nathan, made sure her towel was secure, and slipped into her room. Nathan smiled at the door, moving down the narrow passage to his own room.

It took nearly two hours to dock, in the end. Zeppelin traffic over New York was especially bad, a fact blamed on the recent storms. The Fortune Hunters weren't too broken-hearted by this - their main intention in New York was to spend some of their hard-earned money living the high life, enjoying some real R&R. Finally, however, the rumbling thunder of the engines died away, and Big John opened the hatch onto the docking ramp.

Dressed in their partying clothes, the Fortune Hunters stepped out onto the ramp, facing a collection of reporters. The story of their daring battle against the Fast Paced Squadron had made all the papers in Dixie, and the New York pressmen clearly wanted their share.

"Captain Zachary!" shouted some, while others snapped pictures and shouted questions. Nathan put on a big smile and waved the other Fortune Hunters close, letting the cameras whirr for a few seconds before heading past the group. The others moving swiftly, dodging the mass of press and heading for the terminal building, which would allow them to take a taxi to the Waldorf, where rooms were waiting for them, prepaid by the Confederate Museum. Nathan was almost clear when a reporter stepped out, camera at the ready.

"Captain Zachary, a moment, please?"

Nathan stopped. This reporter was short, blonde, and very, very pretty. Her hair was caught back under an unflattering hat, but her lips were full and red, and the figure he could see beneath the traditional trenchcoat appeared extremely pleasant.

"Why, certainly, Miss?"

"Perkins," she said, "Polly Perkins, from the Chronicle. Is there any truth in the rumours that your group was paid a considerable amount for what has been treated as an act of generosity?"

Nathan gave Polly an appraising look. It would have been easy to dismiss the blonde as a airhead cub the Chronicle had sent out for appearance's sake, but he had heard of Polly Perkins. She was considered an intelligent, daring reporter, and while he had heard that she was good-looking, he had not been prepared for the reality.

"I'll tell you what, Miss Perkins," he said, stepping towards her and slipping a piece of card into her hand, "why don't you come over tonight and we can discuss it over dinner?"

The very vaguest hint of a blush touched the tips of her cheeks. "I'd like that, Captain," she said, stepping back and allowing the other reporters to move in, shouting their repetitive, unimaginative questions. Ignoring them, Nathan headed for the terminal building.

The rest of the Fortune Hunters hadn't waited for their captain, leaving him to take a taxi alone. The small, open-topped plane buzzed quietly between the towering skyscrapers of this king of cities, and Nathan felt himself relaxing.

The staff of the Waldorf welcomed him with even more enthusiasm than he had expected, the reason for which soon became apparent. The bar of the hotel had been invaded by his pilots, who seemed to have progressed to a state of inebriation with impressive speed.

"Cap'n!" shouted Betty as he entered, "we bin waitin' for ya! What'll ya have?"

"Whiskey," he replied, smiling an acknowledgement of the bartender's expression. He leaned over the bar. "Sorry about them, we've just had a really good month."

The bartender looked back at the group with a pained expression, and turned to Nathan. He watched as the bartender's eyes took in the symbol on his jacket and then looked at his face.

"You're... you're Nathan Zachary! Of the Fortune Hunters!"

Nathan smiled. Getting recognised like this was always a pleasure.

"That's right. Would you like an autograph?"

"No," said the bartender, drawing a pistol. "I'd like revenge."

THEME TUNE!

IMPRESSIVE DISPLAY!

CASTLIST!

SKY CAPTAIN AND THE FORTUNE HUNTERS!

"Hey," said Nathan, holding out his hands, "there's no need to get violent. We'll pay for the damage."

"To hell with the damage! You killed my brother!"

Nathan risked looking at the others. They were frozen, Big John and Tex slowly reaching for their own weapons. There was a significant shortage of dead bodies.

"I'm not sure..." Nathan began, but the bartender interrupted.

"No, I doubt you are. Two years ago, you raided an experimental airfield hanger in the ISA. My brother was a rookie pilot with Blake Aviation Security. He'd been on the job less than a week when you and your pirate buddies blew in and stole some equipment. He tried to stop you with his squadron, and you gunned him down."

"Now, come on," said Big John, trying to distract the bartender. "We were fired on first."

"You were trying to steal from them!" exclaimed the bartender, the gun wobbling in his hand. "They were trying to defend themselves, and you murdered them!"

The bartender looked over at Big John, and Nathan acted. One hand grabbed the bartender's wrist, the other the barrel of the gun, forcing it up and twisting it from his grasp. There was a sharp crack and the bartender's face went white. Nathan flipped the gun over towards his friends, not bothering to watch as Buck Deere snatched it out of the air.

"I'm sorry about your finger," said Nathan. The digit was clearly broken. "And I'm sorry about your brother. Big John, call an ambulance."

As the Pandora's pilot headed for the lobby, Nathan and Jack helped the bartender out after him, the better to wait for the ambulance. As the wailing siren approached, another man stepped out of the kitchen, tying on an apron and assuming a helpful expression.

"All right, then, gents, what'll it be?"

Nathan ordered another round of drinks, watching for other members of the Pandora's crew. Two mechanics and the navigation officer turned up, who informed him that Marco was going to remain on watch. The five gunners of the Pandora, always a cagey group, had disdained to join the others in the Waldorf and were staying at a friend's club in downtown.

The evening was heading towards the traditionally convivial, the bar growing crowded as the other guests realised that the famous Fortune Hunters were in their midst. Nathan was in the middle of describing his daring battle with La Ara a Negra in the canyons of Arixo when he noticed a blonde woman in a raincoat moving purposefully through the crowd.

"Hello, Polly," he said, moving aside and making space at the bar.

"Hello, Nathan," she replied, looking around at the adoring masses. "Am I interrupting?"

"No, I was just..."

"I'm sure you were," Polly said, her eyes laughing.

"Can I buy you a drink?" said Nathan, feeling unaccustomedly foolish. Polly smiled at him.

"Sure," she said. "I'll have a Scotch on the rocks."

Nathan signalled the barman, who provided the lady's drink as well as another double of Jack Daniel's for the airman.

"I'm glad you could make it," said Nathan, studiously ignoring the looks the rest of his crew were giving him as they intercepted and distracted those who would talk to the leader of the Fortune Hunters.

"Well, an exclusive interview would make for a great story, Mister Zachary," she said, not letting her smile slip an inch.

"Really? Well, what do you say we conduct that interview somewhere more... private?"

The smile faded now, ever so slightly. "Good idea," she said. "How about that booth over there?"

Nathan maintained his easy smile, watching her eyes. This might still go his way, he thought, and even if it didn't, a few hours in this girl's presence was nothing to complain about.

The bar was crowded, noisy and smoky now, the fans on the ceiling serving only to move the air around. The booth was empty, and Nathan and Polly slid easily into it.

"So, what did you want to ask me, Miss Perkins?" asked Nathan, trying to bring his mind back into "dealing with reporters" mode.

"Well, let's start with your recent adventure in Dixie. I heard from a friend down there that the Staff you recovered was brought to Dixie by an Imperial zeppelin?"

"That's right. A British archaeologist was working on an excavation of some palace in China when he was approached by an antiquities dealer, who offered to sell him an Egyptian artifact called the Staff of Ankoran. The Chinese government wanted it, but the archaeologist managed to reach the border and get the Staff loaded onto a Royal Navy destroyer docked at Hong Kong."

"Where was the excavation?"

"Near a town called Nanjing. Do you know it?" asked Nathan. He couldn't miss the look of pain that crossed Polly's face.

"Yes," she replied, "I've been to Nanjing."

"Rough place," he said, "especially now the Manchurians control the area. When were you there?"

"About six months ago," she said, shaking her head and appearing to discard whatever was bothering her. "But getting back to the story."

"Yes," said Nathan. "So, as I say, the Staff was loaded onto the British destroyer. They made it far enough out into the South China Sea to meet up with the Royal Air Force combat zeppelin Fearless, who took the Staff on board and headed for the Kingdom of Hawaii, I think hoping to find a friendly port. Only, the Chinese didn't like that idea."

"Why did they want the Staff?"

"Well, legends say that the Staff contains directions to a place of great treasure. The whole thing is covered in very detailed carvings, all hieroglyphics and so on. The historians are apparently divided on what the place of treasure is or if it ever existed, so we decided to leave it to them to figure out."

"What was an Egyptian artifact doing in China?"

"You know, we never found out. We got involved when we picked up a distress call from a Confederate airship near the border with French Louisiana..."

Nathan continued the story, mildly embellishing some aspects of the adventure to make for a more compelling tale. Polly reacted most gratifyingly, even though Nathan was sure she was seeing right through his more outlandish statements.

The bar started to quiet down as Nathan finished his story, ending with an only-slightly embellished tale of how he and the other Fortune Hunters had managed to destroy Dead-Eye Duncan's zeppelin and escape from his revenge, carrying the Staff strapped to the wing of his Devastator.

Nathan excused himself, and slipped out of the booth to go replenish their drinks. He was just collecting them when Polly stepped up to the bar.

"Well, Captain, it's been a pleasure. Thank you for your help, and I'm sure we'll be seeing each other soon. Good-bye," she said, and headed for the door with fixed determination. Nathan stood their, with a martini in one hand and a whisky in the other. Shrugging, he knocked them both back, put the glasses back on the bar and headed off to bed.

The next morning dawned cold and clear. Normally, Nathan would never have known this, but he was awoken just after seven by a banging on the door to his suite.

Bleary-eyed, his head thumping, he cracked the door open. Big John stood there, holding a newspaper in his hand.

"I thought you should see this, Cap'n. This morning's Chronicle."

Nathan took the paper, blinked to clear his vision, and focused on the headline. "Pirate attack in Dixie destroys zeppelin!" read the headline, with a smaller one underneath.

"Fortune Hunters not to face prosecution?" asked Nathan. "What are we being sued for?"

"We're not, Cap'n. The paper is calling for us to be arrested and extradited to Dixie to answer charges of murder, arson and assault with a deadly weapon."

"What for?"

"For knocking out Dead-Eye Duncan's zep, and shooting down his planes and so on."

"Well, yeah, we did all that, but just because that was the job!"

"The paper says that the age of the gentleman of fortune has ended, and it's time for civilization to move on."

Nathan shook his head again, accepting the fierce pain that followed such a gesture in exchange for the clearing of his sight. A short byline caught his eye.

"By Polly Perkins. I should have known."

Manchurian Prison Camp Changchun, China

"Prisoner four-eight-seven-six-two!" shouted the overseer. 48762 shuffled forward out of the line of similarly-dressed malcontents and criminals. He knew the price of disobedience, and was disinclined to pay it for no reason.

"As punishment for your third escape attempt in six months, you have been sentenced," declared the overseer, a short, balding man that 48762 had come to hate with a passion. "You will be taken to solitary confinement, and , in the morning, we will cut off your fingers!" 48762 didn't let the threat visibly disturb him. The threat didn't matter. He had a plan. He wasn't going to be here in the morning.

It was a complex plan, as comes naturally to some people. He had deliberately been caught on this most recent attempt, hoping for this punishment. It was a fine line - the Japanese were not hesitant to shoot escapees, and dying in the crossfire of this Russian-Japanese war would not be a noble end to his career.

The guards were not gentle, but 48762 was used to the unthinking abuse by now. Solitary confinement was a small concrete block on the edge of the prison grounds. The prison had been a school for the upper classes before the Japanese invasion, and the confinement block had been a groundsman's storage shed. The invaders had reinforced it, along with the rest of the school, and it now housed nearly a thousand people considered to be a threat to the security of the Manchukuo state.

There was a grinding sound and then a click as the heavy door to the shed was swung shut. 48762 paused only for a moment before attacking the floor of the shed.

The floor was made of old wooden boards. In his last stay in solitary, 48762 had discovered a box under the floor, containing a collection of useful things. Now, he planned to use some of those things.

The door to the shed was thick and secure, but not particularly close-fitting. It was easy to tell when night fell, and 48762 wasted no time once the evening roll-call was taken and the majority of the guards joined the prisoners in sleep.

The coil of cutting wire allowed him to shear off the bolt to the shed, and he was then committed. He would never have another shot at escape, and this one had to go smoothly.

The spotlights that illuminated the prison were placed atop long, steel shafts, and 48762 had learned their placement and coverage long ago. Shuffling along the wall of Barracks Eighteen, he tapped a code against the wooden wall.

One of the planks that made up the wall swung out a few inches from the floor, and a hand thrust out a sheaf of paperwork. 36552 had been an official in the local bureaucracy before the invasion, and had managed to forge a convincing-looking set of identity papers. The rest of the paperwork was letters to the governments of the various foreign nationals being held by the Manchurian invaders. They were counting on him to let people know that they were alive, and being held here in this hellhole.

There was no time to waste. The night delivery truck would be arriving soon, and it was 48762's only hope of getting out. The truck was thoroughly searched before leaving, but he had a plan.

The darkness of the night was his advantage. The clouds covered the moon and the spotlights cast deep shadows between the barrack buildings. 48762 found the spot he'd chosen weeks before, a spot where the spotlights behind and the spotlights before left a small triangle of shadow.

The routine of the guards was his only hope, and this night was no different. The truck arrived, and the driver climbed out. Guards approached and started pulling boxes off the back.

The driver stepped away from the truck, clearly glad to be able to stand up and stretch. Another pair of guards manhandled a large tank on wheels over to the truck and started to refuel it.

The driver stepped out of their way, and moved to his customary spot, away from the fuel tank, to have a quick smoke. Army regulations prohibited him from indulging while he drove, so he always took this opportunity.

The driver started to wonder about the strange uncoiling shadow, but it struck far too fast for him to shout a warning. The blow rendered him unconscious, and for 48762 it was the time when speed was a priority. If any of the guards glanced over and noticed the driver wasn't visible, the alarm would be sounded and all would be over. Rapidly, 48762 pulled off the driver's greatcoat, cap and weapons belt, donning them with the ease of practise. Scooping up the slightly bent cigarette, he took a heavy draw to try and keep it alight. There was a glow, and the sharp taste of cheap tobacco caught him in the back of the throat. It had been a long time since his last smoke.

Surreptitiously kicking the driver's body out of the light, 48672 stepped forward and ground out his cigarette under his heel, dodged the guards and climbed into the cab of the truck. The captain of the guards lead the search of the truck, including shining a light under the vehicle, before signalling the gate guard. The gate swung open as the driver gunned the engine and headed for freedom.

The tension made 48672's hands shake, and he was grateful that no guard accompanied him, lest they see the visible nervousness. The vehicle was unfamiliar to him, but the basic mechanics were the same the world over. He badly ground the gears shifting into second, but he was passing the gate now and didn't care. A few more seconds and he would be past the last of the guardposts and free.

As the truck reached the brow of the hill, 48672 felt himself relax. The lights of the prison camp died as the truck descended the far side, and the main road appeared. The signs were in Chinese, but 48762 knew which way he was going. Turning to the east and freedom, he headed for the harbor.

He abandoned the truck about a mile from dock ninety-four, where his friends would be waiting. Sure enough, the battered structure of a long-range cutter rode alongside the jetty, a figure standing on the aft deck smoking a cigarette. 48762 slipped closer, not wanting to reveal himself, just in case. About ten yards from the boat, out in the middle of the concrete expanse, a searchlight snapped on and there was the crash of charging weapons.

"Freeze!" shouted the figure on the boat. Then, "My God, it is you!"

The searchlight dropped away, no longer dazzling, now illuminating. The shape emerged into the light, a dark-haired, baby-faced man.

"Welcome back, Captain," said the man.

"Thanks, Dex. Let's get out of here," said Joe Sullivan, Sky Captain.

Two weeks had passed, and the Fortune Hunters were getting restless. While rest and relaxation were always enjoyable, they were professional enough to long for a return to adventure. So it was almost a relief when the busboy brought Nathan a message. It was a request to repair to the lobby and telephone the terminal building - there was a message from the Pandora.

Intrigued, Nathan dressed and headed downstairs, choosing the end telephone as it was in a private booth. He dialed the number for the terminal, asking the operator to put him through.

A communication line was one of the services offered by the terminal, along with power, fuel and water, so the intercom phone in the navigation room rang. Marco scooped it up.

"Ah, Mister Nathan! I am so sorry to have to tell you, but I have very bad news! Remember the box we were asked to transport?"

Nathan remembered, all right. A gentleman in Miami had asked the Fortune Hunters to move a large crate for him. It was an unusual assignment for a group of sky pirates, but the man had said that he didn't trust the mail services with something this large, and he had paid a handsome price. The deal had been that they would drop it off at the main zeppelin terminal in Denver, Free Colorado. It had been odd, but they were the Fortune Hunters - not all their jobs involved shooting down other planes and robbing zeppelins, and the money had been much better than he expected.

"What about it, Marco?"

"Ah, Mister Nathan! It has been stolen!"

Nathan felt his gut churn. They had been paid half in advance, half on delivery, but it would still be a smear on their reputation.

"How, Marco?"

"I do not know, Mister Nathan. The ramp was locked up tight, and the main doors are still padlocked shut! It should not be possible!"

The crate, Nathan remembered, was so large it had had to be loaded through the fighter hatch, the biggest gap in the Pandora's structure. The weight had nearly overloaded the winch, which could handle a fully-laden Balmoral without breaking a sweat. He had been curious as to its contents, but discretion was another Fortune Hunter trait that had earned them many jobs.

Any thief would have needed to sneak aboard the zeppelin, which did not have its boarding ramp run out when in dock, unlock and open the main hatch, lower out the crate (presumably to another zeppelin, the Pandora was thirty stories above the ground) and then close and relock the hatch, all without waking any of the crew. It seemed unlikely, but the crate was manifestly not there. There was nothing else for it.

Nathan had a cab summoned and returned to the Pandora. He had no intention of calling the NYPD, who would take great pleasure in searching the entire Pandora for "clues". While they would certainly find evidence of a number of crimes, Nathan had a distinct feeling that whoever had swiped this crate was far too professional to leave something the bumblers in the NYPD could find.

Calming the flustered Marco, who appeared to be taking this entire event as some kind of personal slur on his honesty, Nathan examined the scene. On review, some things became clear.

The crate had been stowed not too far from the hatch, the better to keep the strain off the winch. However, there were clear scrape marks on the metal floor of the cargo hold, as if the crate had been pushed over to the hatch rather than lifted by the winch. Examining the padlock, Nathan noticed the small scratches that hinted at the use of lockpicks or other burglar's tools.

Resigning himself to the fact that, as he had suspected, there was nothing to identify the thieves, Nathan went up the ladder to his room, where he found the documents their customer in Dixie had given them. Glumly, he went down to the navigation room, where the intercom was connected through the terminal building to the telephone exchange.

It took a few minutes to reach the Miami exchange, where Nathan was informed that the number he had was not valid and did not exist. Moreover, he was told, that number was part of a sequence reserved for numbers belonging to the University of Miami, and, "I don't believe they've reached that far, sir," said the young lady, her thick Southern accent pleasing to the ear. "I'm sorry, sir."

"That's all right," said Nathan, hanging up. Well. There was another number, this one in Denver. Steeling himself for another battle with the New York exchange, he picked up the handset and dialled for the operator.

It was somewhat easier to reach Denver, the trans-continental network having been completed only two months before. The operator was able to connect him to the number, which started to ring.

The phone rang for nearly a minute, and Nathan was about to hang up and try something else when there was a click and a voice said, "Who is this?"

"My name is Nathan Zachary. I'm looking for a... " he checked his notes. "A Doctor Marmole?"

"This is Captain Petersen of the Denver Fire Department. Someone torched Doctor Marmole's office last night, and I'm afraid he didn't make it out."

"Oh," said Nathan. For once, his easy conversation deserted him. "I see. Thanks, Captain." He hung up, gently.

For a long moment, he sat in the navigation room, not sure what to do. He almost jumped out of his seat when the telephone on the plotting table rang.

"Pandora," he said, abiding by the tradition.

"You should know," said a voice, with a heavy German accent. "Doctor Marmol is not dead."

"Who is this?" demanded Nathan, but the line had gone dead. Rapidly, he hammered on the connection bar, trying to re-establish the line, but there was no reply until a New York voice said, "Operator, wadda ya want?"

"Someone just called me on this line, can you tell me who it was?"

"Nope. You want somethin' else?"

"No. Thanks for your help," he said, ringing off before she could reply to his sarcasm.

He sat back down on the chair, trying to sort out everything that had just happened. Finally, he picked up the phone and asked for the Waldorf hotel.

"Waldorf," said a firm, professional voice. Nathan recognised the concierge who had been so helpful in arranging the ambulance their first night.

"Hi," said Nathan, "I need to send a message to suite 2007 as fast as possible. Message reads, Return to base, departure imminent."

"I see, sir. Will there be anything else?"

"Yes. Suites 2004 through 2010 will be checking out in the next hour. Please forward the bill to the zeppelin Pandora, currently docked at the main Manhattan terminal, as fast as you can."

"I understand, sir. Am I right in thinking that you are currently occupying one of those suites?"

"That's right, 2009."

"Then, shall I send a boy up to collect your things?"

"No, my friends will take care of that," said Nathan, grateful that the concierge had asked. Explaining the collection of firearms that were in his cases might have been difficult.

"Very good, sir," said the concierge.

Forty-five minutes later, wearing expressions of varying hostility, the crew of the Pandora arrived on the boarding ramp. The gunnery brothers were right behind them, much more eager to board, hoping that Nathan's message meant that a return to action was in the offing.

The Pandora was already preparing to cast off lines when a boy dressed in the uniform of the Waldorf ran onto the flight deck, holding a piece of paper. Nathan happened to be the closest to the door, so he stepped out to collect it. As he did so, he noticed a familiar face heading out onto the deck as well.

"Hello, Polly," he said, his voice cold.

"Hi, Nathan. Did you miss me?"

"Not at this range," he replied, letting his hand settle onto the butt of his gun.

"You're not still mad about that story, are you?"

Nathan glared at her, unwilling to simply turn away. "You lied, Polly. You twisted my words and made us look like murderers."

"Look, Nathan..."

"No, Polly. We're leaving," he said, turning away with an effort and signalling the engineer operating the docking ramp.

"That's a shame," she shouted as the gangplank started to retract. "I guess you're not interested in what I know about Doctor Marmol !"

A slashing gesture stopped the ramp mid-climb. Not lowering it yet, Nathan turned.

"Why should I care about whoever that is?"

"Don't play games with me, Nathan. You're looking for him, and I'm coming with you."

"No," said Nathan, "absolutely not."

"Well, since I'm the only one who knows why someone might have torched his lab, good luck working it out once you get to Denver."

"How did you know about that?" asked Nathan, instantly regretting his mistake. She could be certain she was right now, even if she was only fishing before. Sighing, he indicated for the ramp to be lowered.

Terminal staff had started slacking off the mooring ropes, and the ramp was now nearly a foot shy of the edge of the dock. Polly stepped forward and hesitated, the gusting winds making the thirty-storey drop very apparent. Nathan grabbed one of the support stanchions and held out a hand. Gripping her camera case and visibly steeling herself, she took two rapid steps and jumped.

The high heels and narrow skirt restricted her movements, and she might have struggled on the short distance if Nathan hadn't grabbed her free hand and pulled her on board. The engineer wound the ramp closed, nodded at Nathan and headed off to the engineer's cubbyhole.

"Welcome to the Pandora, Miss Perkins. Let me introduce you to the boys and girls," said Nathan, leading Polly to the ladder that went up to the navigation room.

The Flying Legion was not normally a naval organisation, and the boat that had picked Joe Sullivan up from the port of Nanjing was a battered, worn-out thing, barely suited to the mission in hand. Its only advantage was that no-one would believe that the famous Sky Captain, leader of the illustrious Flying Legion, ace pilot of the 1st American Volunteer Group, could possibly attempt his escape from the most powerful naval force in the west Pacific in something so slow and leaky.

The cutter, which had once been the USS Kanab, chugged steadily eastwards, not far from the official border of Japan's territorial waters. Joe had wanted to turn south, the better to clear their territory, but Dex had been persuasive - Japanese patrols were thick in the South China Sea, as the Japanese navy sought to bottle up their Chinese counterparts and prevent a seaborne reinforcement of embattled Manchuria. It had been a daring, calculated risk, but it seemed to have paid off.

A larger ship was motoring even slower than Kanab, turning to come alongside. She was a strange shape, flat on top, with steep, slab-like sides. A boarding ladder was run out, and Joe was surprised to recognise the uniforms of the Royal Navy of the British Empire.

Joe and Dex clambered up the ladder. Dex had bought the crew by promising them the Kanab once they were done. Joe had protested that they were certain to return directly to the nearest port and alert the authorities, but Dex's calm assurance that this wouldn't matter now seemed much more reasonable.

Two sailors stood at the top of the ramp, their insignia marking them as ratings. They saluted the boarding men sharply, while a group of crewmen occupied the distance between the ladder and the large superstructure.

The deck of the ship was like nothing Joe had even seen. Absolutely flat, there was nothing on it apart from the superstructure. From that towering construction came another officer, and the lights gleamed against her uniform and the golden bands on her wrists and lapels.

"Cap'n on deck," called an officer, and there was a sequence of razor-sharp salutes. Joe didn't react, and Dex followed his lead, shifting his own instinctive salute into a hair-brushing gesture.

Dark-haired, slim and statuesque, Captain Francesca Cook strode over towards the two Americans, her crew scattering as she acknowledged their salute.

"Well, well. When Dex said to meet him here to met an old friend, I didn't expect it to be Joseph Sullivan."

"Franky," said Joe, smiling. "A pleasure."

"I didn't expect to see you again. I don't usually take kindly to men who leave without an explanation," she said, her smile taking on a dangerous edge. Joe maintained his own easy grin.

"Franky, I was arrested by the Japanese. Someone cut my fuel line and then they raided the airfield."

"Yes," she said, "I heard about that. I didn't think they could catch you so easily, however."

"Well, Franky," he said, "we all make mistakes."

"Yes, we do, Joseph. Just be sure that I do not intend to make another one here."

With that, she turned on her heel and headed back to the superstructure. Dex and Joe had to hustle to keep up.

"What is this ship, Franky?" he asked, still impressed by its dimensions.

"This, Joseph, is the latest in Royal Navy technology," she said, her pride in her vessel apparent. "HMS Ark Royal, a floating airfield."

"Well, not *the* latest," said Dex, before a glare from Franky shut him up. If looks could kill, the young genius would have been flayed alive. Franky picked up the trail.

"She holds twenty-four Manta-class fighters, as well as two squadrons of Halifax bombers and a group of new craft called the autogryo. Clever little thing, useful for recon work. With this ship, the Royal Navy can deploy up a full attack wing up to three hundred miles away from any point in the world's oceans."

"Impressive," said Joe, meaning it. If the Ark Royal concept proved a success, it could alter the face of global power. He was not certain he was totally pleased at that power resting in the hands of the British Empire.

"We are heading to resupply in the Kingdom of Hawaii," said Franky, and Joe knew he well enough to sense the undercurrent in her voice. The recent failed attempt by a British task force to recapture the small island nation had rankled a lot of senior officers, particularly as an experimental submarine had been tasked with the mission. Rumors persisted that an airborne mercenary force had been responsible for the defence of the mostly peaceful kingdom. Franky carried on, hoping to smooth over the brief irritation.

"I'm sure you can find transport there back to the Empire State? I doubt that the Nation of Hollywood would take kindly to an Imperial task force of this size and power approaching too close to their shore."

"Task force?" asked Dex, as the three of them entered the island and headed upstairs.

"Task force," confirmed Franky, opening the door to the command room. Tall windows gave Joe his first real look at the deck of Ark Royal, and he started to understand. The large, flat surface was painted with the markings of a runway, and a large square area was probably access to under-deck hanger spaces. He turned to see what Franky was focusing on, and stepped closer to get a better look.

A large table displayed a radar image of the seas around them. A green box marked the position of Ark Royal, with smaller boxes moving into a formation around her. A white box was moving away.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing.

"Your cutter," she replied, focusing on the display. She turned to her executive officer and spoke with the tone of authoritative command that had so attracted Joe to her in the first place.

"Signal the fleet that we will be making twenty-one knots to Pearl Harbour. Lancaster and Kent are to take point, Victory and Invincible to close on our flanks. Instruct all ships to remain alert until we have reached Hawaiian waters, I don't want the Japanese sneaking up on us wanting their prisoner back."

"Very good, captain," replied the XO, bustling off to work.

The port of Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, was no longer the naval base it had been years before. With the collapse of the Union of the States, the Hawaiians had returned to a traditional form of government, led by their king. The military had mostly given up Pearl Harbor to the tourist vessels that stopped their, and the western edge was now a major zeppelin terminal, the stop-off and refuelling point for trans-Pacific voyages.

Rather than bring in the full might of the Royal Navy and spark a diplomatic incident, Franky transferred them to the destroyer HMS Dauntless, which, being much smaller, slipped without much notice up to the zeppelin terminal. Dex had already booked them passage back to San Francisco, where Flying Legion aircraft would take their leader back home.

The journey back to the Nation of Hollywood was pleasant and uneventful, and Dex filled Joe in on what he had missed. The Japanese invasion into Manchuria was stalling, the sheer weight of the Chinese armed forces preventing them from advancing any further. The Flying Tigers were mostly focusing on materiel raids, taking advantage of the sheer length of the Japanese supply lines. Closer to home, the Supreme Committee of the People's Collective had finally chosen a new supreme leader - only for him to die of a heart attack two weeks later. Chaos had engulfed the Collective - again.

Otherwise, it had been a generally quiet summer. The ongoing war in Manchuria was causing rumbles in some places, with stories about Royal Navy vessels being sighted in the South China Sea protecting Hong Kong being the latest rumor splashed over the front pages of the papers. As they walked onto the main concourse of the Sanfran Terminal building, Sky Captain scooped up a paper from a stand as they passed. It called loudly for the prosecution of a group of pirates from Dixie. Dex watched as Joe's eyes crossed the by-line and his face twisted. He dropped the paper back on its stand and led Dex towards the charter building. He could see the Shenandoah waiting for them.

Once aboard, Dex lead the briefing. A contract had come in, asking the Flying Legion to arrest a man name Pierre Marmol , last seen in Denver, Colorado. He was wanted in the Industrial States for charges of espionage, sabotage and possession of restricted weapons. The Free Colorado government had agreed an extradition, but refused to commit their own police force to intercepting the man, who had a doctorate in metallurgy and another in aerodynamics. They would transit to Denver International Airport, where Legion agents had already rented a hanger for the half-dozen planes that were waiting on the runway below the Shenandoah.

After the meeting had finished and people were done talking about how great it was to see him again, Sky Captain led his men down to the runway, there to board their P-40s and escort the Shenandoah to Denver, a journey that would take nearly twelve hours, not counting a refueling stop in St George, Deseret.

The sun was creeping towards the horizon when Sky Captain signalled his squadron, tripped the brakes and advanced the throttle. It had been six months since his last flight, but not even a night trip over unfamiliar terrain could shake the elation he felt at returning to the cockpit. In this splintered place, power over the air was the greatest power of all, and he was the king of it.

END OF CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO COMING SOON


	2. Chapter 2

Sky Captain and the Fortune Hunters

Chapter Two

Autumn tornadoes and Red Skulls out of Chicago had hindered their progress, but the Fortune Hunters had finally made it across the border and were now entering Free Colorado. After the introduction of the Smith Law in '29 and the collapse of the Union in '31, the territory that had once been the State of Colorado had found itself in a difficult place. The powerful Communist forces of the People's Collective to the east and the religious zealots of Deseret to the west had threatened to overwhelm the mountainous region. It was the man who had once been the state governor, Billy Adams, who had mobilised the National Guard units and reinstated the state militia. In defeating skirmishing units of the People's Collective at the Battle of Julesburg in the spring of 1930, he had established the new nation of Free Colorado.

Billy Adams had been returned as President of Free Colorado by a massive majority, and even now, years later, he was regarded as a kind and benevolent ruler. The mineral wealth of his country had made his people wealthy, and the relaxed, liberal ideals of Free Colorado attracted scientists and intellectuals from around the world .

Denver, the nation's capital, was a beautiful place, the Mile-High City. The profitability of the local area meant that the zeppelin dock was enormous, one of the largest in the world. Railroads approached from all directions, as heavy-lift zeppelins took the ore and refined metals to destinations as far away as Russia and Australia.

Air traffic control picked up the Pandora twenty miles from Denver, directing the airship to one of the commercial docks. Nathan Zachary, captain of the Pandora and leader of the deadly Fortune Hunters sky pirate gang that nestled in her belly, examined a map of Denver.

"Big John," said Nathan, addressing the bulky pilot of the zeppelin. "Bring us about to two six zero and up to one-half thrust. With the wind, that should drop us right on our approach vector."

"Sure thing, Nathan," said Big John, making the adjustments. Nathan was not in the cockpit - that tiny room was barely big enough for Big John. Rather, he stood in the navigation room, connected to the cockpit by a small door. For the sake of aerodynamics, Empire State zeppelins had most of their crew spaces internally, dispensing with exterior gondolas as much as possible. Of course, most people, the Fortune Hunters included, discounted the aerodynamic factors to fit as many turrets to the sides of the ship as they could afford. There was a word for an airship without weapons: target.

Over Big John's shoulder, Nathan could see the shape of the city, a formless mass through the thin cloud layer. At this altitude, the effectiveness of the Pandora's lifting cells was reduced, and she would need to refill them at the port terminal. Fortunately, the world's largest lifting gas production facility was less than ten miles from Denver, which thus had the cheapest prices of any facility Nathan had ever visited.

Of choice, Nathan would not have come to Denver at all. He had been to the city before, and enjoyed the majestic grandeur of the mountains as well as the relaxed attitude of the citizens of Free Colorado, but the inconvenience of refuelling and re-gassing would normally rule out bringing the Pandora. This time, he didn't have a choice.

The Fortune Hunters had been contracted in Dixie to take a cargo from Miami to Denver. When Nathan had protested that they were headed to New York, the customer had insisted, claiming that time was not critical but reliability was. Nathan had taken the job as well as half the payment up front. It had not been a trivial sum, and sky pirating was an expensive trade. However, halfway through their planned vacation in the capital of the Empire State, someone had snuck aboard the Pandora and stolen the cargo. The name, address and telephone number of the customer had all turned out to be fake, and when Nathan had called the office of Doctor Marmole, the intended reciepient, it turned out that his office had just been torched, the doctor assumed dead.

Thinking of Marmole reminded Nathan of another unfortunate complication to this job, which was currently climbing gingerly down the ladder from the crew accomodations. She was dressed in a tight skirt and high heels, the very pinnacle of modern fashion - and totally out of place on a working airship. Polly Perkins, ace reporter of the Chronicle, had persuaded Nathan to let her join them on this job by promising them everything she knew about Marmole.

It had been depressingly little. All the Fortune Hunters had gathered the first evening of the trip to hear what she had to say....

* * *

Navigation Room, Pandora  
Three days ago

"Good evening, everyone," said Polly, looking nervous. The Fortune Hunters sat or stood around the room, which was badly crowded.

"I think you all know Polly Perkins," said Nathan, watching her. She at least had the good grace to blush.

On arrival in New York, Polly had managed to score an exclusive interview with Nathan. The story she had published, however, had painted sky pirates in general and the Fortune Hunters in particular as villainous, murderous rogues, plundering those weaker than them and killing any who resisted. The New York audiences, protected by one of the best government-run air defence forces, had lapped it up. The Fortune Hunters, used to life in rougher climes, had been rather offended.

"Polly says she knows about Doctor Marmole, the man we were supposed to be delivering a crate to in Denver," continued Nathan. "After I found out the crate was stolen, I tried calling his office. A local fire chief told me that his office had been torched and the doctor was dead. Then someone called me and told me that Marmole was alive. Polly here already knew that."

"I didn't know that last part," she said, pulling out a notebook and pen. She scribbled rapidly, before turning back a few pages and looking expectantly at Nathan.

"Regardless, she claims to have information for us, and I decided to trade that information for passage to Denver."

The Fortune Hunters turned their attention back to the blonde reporter, who glanced at her notebook and began speaking.

"Doctor Pierre Marmole, born in French Louisiana forty-eight years ago. Graduated from Louisiana State University aged twenty with a degree in metallurgy, returned a year later and acquired a second degree in aeronautics and aerodynamics. Spent twenty years working for Hughes Aviation at their Sacramento facility, before quitting his job and moving to Denver, where he set up as a consultant."

"Is that all you have?" asked Big John, looking unimpressed.

"No," said Polly. "At Hughes Aviation, he was part of their zeppelin design team. He was part of the group that developed the Vulture-class attack zeppelin and is thought to have been the lead designer on a new type of airship, a heavy siege vessel. My sources suggest that it was the cancellation of this project that drove him out of the company."

"Siege zeppelin? What would you want that for?" asked Betty Charles, her thick Brooklyn accent betraying both her origins and the source of her nickname.

"Good question," replied Polly. "It comes down to Marmole's philosophy on life. He believed that the current nature of aerial combat gives too much of an advantage to fast-moving, hit-and run attacking aircraft, which is fine for defence, but prevents any group from exerting enough power to conquer, to claim territory."

"That's a good thing, surely?" This question came from Tex Ryder, who was perched on the edge of the radio table. "We don't want people conquering stuff."

"Marmole published a paper about eight years ago, just before his departure from Hughes. It was widely reported in philosophical journals and political papers, but never got much coverage for his intended audience. He thought that the current state of North America was weakening us all, making us easy prey for other nations. He thought that there was a threat of invasion from China, Japan and Russia."

"What, all at once?" asked Nathan, unable to hide his amusement. "China and Japan don't care about anybody but each other right now, and Russia is more interested in fending off the Europeans than invading another continent."

"He also said that people underestimated the danger of the Mexican Federation, and that they would be the biggest threat to what used to be the United State over the next twenty years."

The Fortune Hunters looked at each other. It was true that Mexican pirate bands had been raiding across the border into Arixo and Texas for years, and that the raids had gotten considerably worse recently. There was even rumors of sightings of official millitary craft supporting the pirates.

"How do you know all this?" asked Betty.

"Two weeks ago, Marmole announced that he would be holding a press conference in Los Angeles next month. He said that at the conference, he would reveal the future of aerial combat, and bring in a new golden age of peace and prosperity. My editor, Mister Payley, asked me to research Marmole and find out about him. I bribed the operator at the New York terminal to tell me if you called anybody. It was just a coincidence that you happened to call Marmole."

"Why'd ya do it if ya didn't know we were workin' for Marmole?" asked Tex.

"To get a heads-up if you called a lawyer or my editor about my story," she shrugged. "That's not the point. The point is, I spoke to his old supervisor, who still works for Hughes. He said that Marmole was the best zeppelin designer he ever saw, no exceptions. He said he had a gift for it."

"Which means what?" asked Tex, pushing herself off the table and standing upright.

"Which means that someone doesn't want Doctor Marmole to hold his press conference. If we believe the Mystery Caller, then the Doctor is still alive, presumably in hiding."

"As you all know," cut in Nathan, "we were transporting a crate for Doctor Marmole. Now, as it was none of my business, I didn't open it. It turns out, however, that not everyone here was as discreet as I was. Jack?"

Jack Mulligan, Nathan's wingman, grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Nathan. I was curious."

Buck Deere coughed, and waved a hand vaguely. "Yeah, uh, me too. Sorry."

Betty and Tex glanced at each other, and started giggling. "Sorry, Nathan," choked Betty, fighting back a blush that threatened to overwhelm her. "Couldn't resist," confirmed Tex.

"So, did you want to tell the rest of us what was in there?"

"Don't know," said Tex. "Looked like some kind of engine parts."

"Jack? Buck?"

"I thought it might be some kind of cylinder manifold," said Buck, still looking slightly embarrassed. "Six large pistons arranged around a central core."

"That's better than my guess," said Jack. "I noticed these cogteeth on one end and thought it was part of a power transfer system."

"Big John recognised it, didn't you," said Nathan, turning to the hulking pilot. Too large to fit comfortably in a Devastator cockpit, Big John had been steadily taking over the role of pilot of the Pandora.

"Yes, Nathan, I did. Back when I was a cargo zep driver for the Texan Republic, we used to move things that looked just like them."

"And what were they?"

"The main rotary section of a heavy howitzer cannon," said Big John. "Judging by what I saw in that crate, it could fire four-and-a-half inch shells."

The Fortune Hunters' good humor dried up instantly. Heavy howitzers were common enough for border guards and had been used as anti-zeppelin cannon. A single hit could cripple even a zep the size of the Pandora, and the invention of the rotary launcher made the likelihood of such a hit almost a certainty.

"From all this, we can make some assumptions. Doctor Marmole is building a siege zeppelin. It almost certainly will carry at least one heavy rotary howitzer, and it is almost certainly finished. I don't think I like the idea of anybody having that kind of firepower."

There was much shaking of heads as the Fortune Hunters considered the situation. Somewhere between Denver and Los Angeles was an angry Louisianan with a phenomenally powerful zeppelin.

It was no secret that French Louisiana considered itself looked down on by the other countries that had sprung up after the collapse of the United States. Surrounded by the Republic of Texas and its fiercely patriotic citizenry on one side and the Confederation of Dixie on the other, the tiny, French-speaking part that had once been Louisiana was often treated as an outcast or a traitor for not joining with one or another of its powerful neighbors. Cross-border raids by the Confederacy and the Republic were not an uncommon occurence. Though nominally directed against each other, Louisianans were often victims of crossfire or just boredom on the part of the militias of the two warring nations.

It was therefore not a surprise that it would be a Louisianan who would develop an airship that could defend his country, maybe even carve out a litte more space for them.

* * *

The briefing, Nathan remembered, had wandered a little from there. Lacking anything more concrete, the Fortune Hunters had decided to travel on to Denver and see what they could find.

Polly finally made it down the ladder into the navigation room, her skirt making the step off the ladder a tricky one. Nathan offered a hand to help her, which she accepted with a scowl. It was hard, Nathan knew, for outsiders to adjust to airship life. The constant swaying and turbulence could affect the strongest stomach, and the unnerving creaking sounds that echoed through the rigging sometimes gave even him chills.

"Where are we?" she asked, her voice a little shaky. Nathan pulled the chart around and pointed out their location.

"We're here, and the Denver Terminal is here, on the east side of the city. We're coming in from the north because there's a strong crosswind and we don't want to go too far west, because turning into the wind will be difficult."

Polly nodded, and made a show of writing down what Nathan had said. They had come to an agreement over her publication of the story. She would not take photographs of the inside of the Pandora, or write anything about the zeppelin's weapons or defences, especially about the two Nation of Hollywood-liveried fighters that were stowed in the hanger. Nathan had no confidence that she would keep her end of the bargin, but he was willing to accept the risk in exchange for the reporter's extensive contacts.

"Terminal's coming up, Nathan," called Big John, expertly shifting the airship into the wind.

"Prepare for docking," said Nathan into the intercom, calling the crew to their docking stations.

Aboard the airship Shenandoah, docking was a much more straightforward exercise. Only half the size of the Pandora and carrying only a single belly gun, the Flying Legion zeppelin was cleared right through the crowded airspace and assigned a dock on the ground level of the terminal building. The P-40 Curtiss fighters of Joe "Sky Captain" Sullivan and the other Legionnaires who had accompanied him on this mission touched down on the runway at the edge of the terminal complex.

Joe was grateful to be back on the ground. While the air was an environment in which he was utterly at ease, his head was throbbing and he was about to strangle his best friend.

"And then," said Dex, climbing out of the back seat, "Grogar grabs the Spider Queen and says, 'I shall crush you like a spider!', because, you know, she's half-spider, and then he grabs Monogren, his mighty sword, and..."

"Dex," interrupted Sky Captain, "I need you to get in touch with the local authorites and find out where this Doctor Marmole lives. There may be some clues as to his current location."

"Right away, Captain," said Dex, dropping smoothly to the tarmac and hustling towards the terminal building. Joe leaned his head against the stick. Four hours. Four hours of the adventures of Grogar, Barbarian King of the Universe. Four hours of temple-robbing, virgin-rescuing, mad-priest-slaying melodrama. His head ached, and his stomach was knotting up again.

Joe clambered out of his plane, looking around at the terminal building. The Shendandoah was moving towards its mooring point, only one of the dozens of airships floating around. One in particular caught his eye, because it seemed so out of place. While most of the ships were wide-bodied, stubby-looking heavy lifters, there was one long, sleek zeppelin, looking for all the world like a Empire State zep that someone had repainted.

The angle didn't let him see any identifying marks, and she was being turned into a holding pattern. Glints of light marked the positions of weapon emplacements and the rows of pod-mounted engines. She's a beauty, he thought.

Leaving the others to get the airship and their fighters squared away, Joe and Dex hailed a taxi and headed to the address Dex had been given by the local police chief. The cab pulled up at the charred remnants of the office block, and the driver turned and said, "1210 Walker Street. That'll be three bucks, pal."

Distracted, Joe handed over the money and climbed out of the cab, Dex on his heels. 1210 Walker Street had, judging by 1208 and 1212, been a two-storey building, the ground floor functioning as a shop or workplace while the upper floor providing living space. They were just stepping over the threshold when another cab pulled up. Two people climbed out, while a third stayed in the cab and said something to the driver. The cab rolled away quietly while the four men sized each other up.

The one on the right, Joe thought, was the leader. The one on the left seemed to be deferring to him. They both carried pistols in belt holsters, which was not uncommon even in this wealthy part of Denver. After a long pause, Dex stepped forward.

"Hi," he said, moving slightly to one side to make sure he wasn't blocking Joe's shot. "My name's Dex, this is Joe."

"Hi," replied the one on the right. "My name is Nathan Zachary, and this is my wingman, Jack Mulligan." Nathan thrust out one hand, which Dex shook.

"I take it you're here looking for Doctor Marmole," said Joe, not making it a question.

"That's right," replied Nathan. "We were supposed to bring him some cargo."

"Is that right?" said Joe. "We were supposed to arrest him."

He noticed how both Nathan and Jack seemed to tense up, ever so slightly.

"You guys are police?" asked Jack, stepping to the left to get both Joe and Dex into his firing arc.

"No," said Joe before Dex could reply. "More like bounty hunters. You might have heard of the Flying Legion?"

There was definite recognition in their eyes. Joe wasn't surprised. Ever since the Flying Legion had done battle with Mexican bandits in west Dixie right in front of a Eye-in-the-Sky news zeppelin it had become something of a household name, especially among pilots. Given that Nathan had introduced Jack as "wingman", they were almost certainly pilots.

"Of course," said Nathan, easily. "Have you heard of the Fortune Hunters?"

Now it was Joe and Dex's eyes turn to flicker with recognition. Daredevils, pirates, heroes, villians, all titles that had been applied to that elite group of sky pirates.

Dex moved forward, holding out his hands. He alone was unarmed, and he could sense the possibility of violence in the air.

"Look, we're all here looking for this doctor, right? Well, I don't know where he is, and the only way we're going to find out is to search this place. So, how about we work together, we find him, he pays you and we cart him off to jail? Is that going to work for everybody?"

Nathan glanced at Jack, and Joe was impressed by how subtle their communication was. A twitch of eyebrow, a flare of nostril, and a decision was made.

"I think we can all work with that," said Nathan, relaxing.

"Great," said Joe. "Why don't you search over there and we'll start over here?

It was slow going, especially since each pair spent at least as much time watching the other two as looking for some kind of clue. As the sun descended towards the Rockies, Nathan finished going through the charred remnants of a desk and called a halt.

"I'm heading back to the terminal to get a drink. You fellows care to join me?"

Joe and Dex looked at each other, and then Joe turned back to Nathan and nodded.

"Sure," he replied.

Nathan waved down a passing cab, and the four airmen were rapidly transported to the airship terminal. The seventeenth storey held the Runway, a drinking hole for pilots and airmen. The bar was dark and smoky, and Joe was clearly known to the staff. Four ice cold Coors were on the bar before they were even sat down, and the airmen scooped up the bottles and took long pulls. After the heat of the day, the beer was more refreshing than usual.

The cameraderie lasted only a few minutes before the group realised it was starting to fracture. They had had no success at the doctor's offices, and the knowledge that they might be facing the end of the trail was irritating in the extreme. Thanking Joe for his hospitality, the Fortune Hunters retreated to the Pandora.

It was just after midnight when Nathan was propelled from his bunk by a most terrifying sound. It was a wailing scream, high and prolonged, that reached into his stomach and dragged him onto his feet and out into the hall without troubling to ask his brain.

The last hints of sleepiness were banished as he realised what the sound was - it was an air-raid siren, coming from the terminal building. Betty was just ahead of him, and she slid down the ladder easily, passing through the navigation room at a run and practically leaping into her Devastator. Nathan was only seconds behind her, his practised eye running over the preflight checks.

It was considered a matter of honor for pilots who were staying at a terminal to defend it they were capable. In some places it was part of the docking agreement, but the Fortune Hunters acknowledged the extent to which future business relied on their reputation and how badly that reputation would suffer if their distinctive red-and-white fighters were not a part of the defending force. In a place like Denver, however, hardly a rough city, the majority of the docked craft would be unarmed cargo zeps and couriers. They would most likely have already started fleeing.

The hanger doors swung open, letting in a blast of icy air. Strapping on the helmet he had left on the stick, Nathan pressed the starter and heard the comforting cough-cough-thrum of his engine turning over. One hand slid the throttle forward, while the other grabbed the release toggle and pulled it sharply.

There was a clang as the brackets released, and the Devastator dropped like a rock. The nose angled down sharply, which increased windspeed over the wings enough to create lift. The takeoff was tricky given the proximity of the terminal building and the number of zeppelins and other aircraft in the area, but for pilots as experienced as the Fortune Hunters, there was no problem.

All five Devastators were had arrived in formation before Nathan could get a response from Denver Tower. They reported the destruction of their northern AA emplacements and that a zeppelin docked on the ground level had been destroyed. Radar was returning at least a dozen fighters moving within the defensive perimeter as well as at least one zeppelin supporting them, moving in from the north. The fighters were moving rapidly, and seemed to be searching for something.

Acknowledging the message and getting a description of the unknown agressors' craft, Nathan banked over and led the Fortune Hunters into a tight, spiralling dive. The Pandora had been assigned a high-level dock, and the enemy would most likely be between them and the ground.

The destroyed zeppelin was clearly visible. She was resting on the ground, flames licking around her internal structure. Nathan's expert eyes tried to identify the source of the damage, but the flames had removed any evidence he could see from this height. Suddenly, a stuttering burst of weapons fire cut out of the night, leaving neat bullet marks across his upper right wing.

Stomping on the rudder pedal, Nathan twisted sharply to his right, his eyes searching for his attacker. There, coming behind the green-and-white zeppelin! The fighter, leading a four-plane element, was coming around for another pass.

In the few seconds he had, Nathan examined the approaching menace. The fighter looked somewhat like a Brigand, but scaled down to a dogfighter weight. The wings were bent halfway along their length, and four heavy cannon were marked out in the searchlights reaching out from the terminal building.

The green-and-white had already dropped her lines and was falling away from the terminal. The four attackers, their craft painted black, came around her and opened fire.

Without having to discuss it, the Fortune Hunter already had their basic plan. Nathan and Jack broke away, the one to port, the other to starboard. The approaching enemy split their fire, one wingpair chasing Nathan while their comrades turned after Jack. It didn't matter. The other three Fortune Hunters had held their course, tight in behind their leaders, and fired on the attackers as they turned. Two went down almost as one, a third banking away slowly, clearly damaged. The fourth seemed undamaged, but it was readily apparent that the pilot had been hit as it followed a ballistic course out of the city and down towards the plains below.

The Fortune Hunters reformed, and responded to a distress call from a zeppelin named Manhattan Molly. She was on the fourth docking level, and the Fortune Hunters dropped on her assailants like lightning.

Manhattan Molly was a well-built, almost unliveried Empire State-type zeppelin, and Nathan had a sudden presentiment of danger. As they descended towards the fighters they could see firing on the airship, he realised that it looked superficially similar to the Pandora.

"Big John," said Nathan into the radio. There was a crackle before the burly zeppelin pilot answered.

"Right here, Nathan."

"Get the Pandora running and move her away from the tower. Head northwest and dogleg in towards that zeppelin Denver Tower is tracking. Once we've cleared this area, we'll be chasing after her."

"Got it, Nathan."

"And John, get the gunners to their stations."

"Sure thing, boss," said Big John. Nathan dropped the microphone and focused on his targets.

The four black-painted craft had completed another attack run and were banking around for another pass. The Manhattan Molly was damaged, at least three of her engines destroyed and one of her eight gas cells starting to deflate. Her remaining engines were spun up, and she was backing away from the tower. Her captain was clearly trying to get clear of the terminal, whether in order to allow her single top-mounted gun a clear shot or, more likely, so that her burning debris would not damage other airships.

Just as the Fortune Hunters entered the range at which they could place shot with the accuracy needed in the crowded battlefield, there came another group of attackers. Striking from below, without the benefit of momentum, came a group of P-40s, and Nathan recognised them instantly as Flying Legion - Sky Captain's outfit. They were devastatingly efficient. There were six of them, but Nathan saw less than twenty shots fired before the four still-unidentified enemy aircraft broke off their assault. Two exploded in mid-air, their ammunition cooking off. One other shed a wing and corkscrewed into the terminal tower, and the fourth one seemed to avoid any real damage and dived, clearly attempting to flee.

A quick radar check indicated that the Fortune Hunters and the Legion had the local skies to themselves, so Nathan flicked his radio to an open channel.

"Legion, Legion, this is Nathan Zachary of the Fortune Hunters. Thanks for the assist."

"No problem, Zachary," replied the man they had met that afternoon. "Unfortunately, we were too late to save our own zeppelin."

Nathan glanced again at the blazing wreck below.

"That was yours?"

"That was the Shendandoah. She was carrying supplies and equipment. I think we'll want a talk with whoever's on that zeppelin Denver Tower says is flying about."

"Likewise, Sullivan. My zeppelin is heading out to help box theirs in. Wait one while I see if there's news."

Without waiting for a reply, Nathan switched to the Fortune Hunters' own frequency. "Big John, do you have anything on that zeppelin?"

"I got something on my radar, boss, but if it a zeppelin it's the biggest I've ever seen. She's approaching Denver, but she's slow... less than three knots, and she's crabbing easterly because of the wind. We should be in visual range... my God!"

"Big John! Big John, come in!"

The Fortune Hunters and the Flying Legion came around the far side of the terminal complex, the plain before them criss-crossed by spotlights from the city and the terminal. About half a mile ahead was the long, narrow cylinder shape of the Pandora. In the distance, off to the north, there was another zeppelin, this one visible only because of the searchlights brushing its hull. There was a sudden rose of flame, growing from the nose of the distant airship, and then a shuddering crack as the shell hit the Pandora. The shock rippled down the length of the airship, and the tough canvas skin shredded under the blow. Flames sprouted from different points along the fuselage, and there was another bang as the gas cells gave way. Collapsing into herself, the Empire State airship began her slow descent to the ground.


End file.
